


Eat.

by sickofit (inthegarden)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Emetophilia, M/M, Vomit, pukelock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthegarden/pseuds/sickofit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock likes seeing John eat. And eat. And eat. And, when he's not able to eat any more, bring it all back up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. This is not for everyone. It may not be for anyone. If vomit grosses you out, turn around now.

It had been an exceedingly long day and by the time John arrived home to Baker Street, he was exhausted. He leaned heavily against the railing, not quite limping but not far from it, and took the stairs slowly. 

Hanging up his coat, he heard a noise from the kitchen. Something a bit like a plate on a table, but Sherlock wouldn’t voluntarily eat. He frowned and took a few steps to the side to peer into the kitchen. What he saw made him lift his eyebrows, confusion evident on his face. “Sherlock?” he said, moving towards him.

Sherlock looked up from what he was doing and nodded at John. “Your safeword is velvet,” he said. “I want you to say it back to me. Velvet.”

John’s mouth dropped open, his heart fluttering. “Safe... safeword, Sherlock? What? What is this?” He waved a hand at the kitchen table, which had been completely cleared aside from five large plates heaped with different food, and three giant glasses of colored liquid. 

“Say it, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing. 

“Velvet,” John said, “my safeword is velvet. Why velvet?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Short, easy to remember, and I’ve never heard you use the word before,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Sit down, John.”

John sat in the chair, fighting to remain calm. Safeword. That was... well, a sex thing. A BDSM sex thing, usually. He looked away from Sherlock, his cheeks reddening, and turned his attention to the table in front of him, very carefully not thinking about sex or Sherlock, and definitely not thinking about them together. He slipped a hand down to shift himself in his trousers, knowing Sherlock would have noticed, but hoping for no comment.

In front of him, where there had been a microscope and a mess of laboratory glassware in various states of cleanliness, there was now only a very clean tabletop, holding five evenly spaced plates. The plates were about twice as wide as a normal dinner plate, white, and filled with enormous amounts of food. The glasses stood in a second tidy row behind them. 

On the far left, a giant heap of mashed potatoes. Right of that, what looked like fettucini Alfredo. Right of that, a plate of tinned beans, several tins worth by the looks of it. Right of that, a heap of tinned peaches, and finally, a mountain of fresh strawberries. John looked them over, confusion visible on his face, and then raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. 

Pale eyes stared back at him with an expression John had never seen before on his flatmate. A mix of vulnerability, fascination, and... lust? John swallowed, his throat uncomfortably dry.

“Choose three,” Sherlock said, waving a long, pale hand at the plates.

John frowned down at the plates. He realized he was probably going to be eating at least some of what was on them, so the beans were right out. He hated the way the slight metal taste of tinned beans reminded him of blood. Considering carefully, he decided the pasta was out as well. He pointed to the remaining three, and looked up at Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded, picking up the beans and fettucini and dropping the plates into the sink. He returned to his seat, sliding the plates back into an evenly spaced line, and pushing one large glass behind each plate. The potatoes got yellow, the peaches orange, the strawberries red. 

“Very good, John,” Sherlock said. He was quiet for a while, his eyes trailing up and down every part of John’s body he could see, and then he nodded. 

“Eat.”


	2. Mashed Potatoes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mashed Potatoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags. Seriously.

John blinked at him. “Eat?”

Sherlock nodded. “Eat. Choose your plate, but you’ll be eating all three. At least one sip of liquid every two bites.” He leaned back in his chair, the buttons of his dark teal shirt straining, and spread his legs. John desperately wished he could see through the laminate table top when Sherlock’s arm snaked down towards his crotch. John inhaled sharply and nodded.   “Yeah, all right,” he said, his voice muted with the force of his desire to do what Sherlock wanted, to keep that look on Sherlock’s face. He picked up a fork and started on the mashed potatoes. 

They were only barely above room temperature, and seasoned with a bit of salt and, as far as he could tell, nothing much else. He took two bites and was starting on his third when Sherlock made a small sound. John froze, looking up, and he saw Sherlock both nod meaningfully to the glass and the gentle slide of his arm. Sherlock was... masturbating? John dropped his fork. 

“Sorry, Christ, sorry about that,” he said, blushing a dark pink and looking away from Sherlock. “Yeah, the drink, of course,” he said, picking up the glass and taking a sip. Lucozade, by the taste of it. Something... tropical. He grimaced and put the glass down.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice deeper than usual, “you may watch me as you like. So long as you’re still eating.”

John raised his eyes slowly and the languorous speed of Sherlock’s shifting arm increased very slightly. John licked his lips and nodded. Well.

He picked his fork back up and scooped up a small heap of potatoes, meeting Sherlock’s eyes as he pushed the fork in his mouth. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, and he shifted down in his chair. “Keep eating,” he said.

John ate steadily, setting a rhythm for himself. Two bites of potato, one swig of Lucozade, repeat. He hadn’t managed time for lunch so at first he was actually hungry, and the potatoes, while not particularly tasty, were inoffensive, so he ate quickly. Sooner than he anticipated, however, he began to feel full. He shifted in his seat and sighed softly. He’d gotten through only about a quarter of the plate. 

Leaning back in his chair he frowned. What exactly was Sherlock expecting of this encounter? He looked up from his plate and opened his mouth to ask him when Sherlock shook his head. 

“Don’t talk, John, just eat. Eat until you can’t. And then, when you need to vomit, do it on the plate.”

John blinked at him and tilted his head to the side.

“You heard me,” Sherlock said, his voice hardening, his arm stilling. “Eat.”

A variety of responses went through John’s head. Of course they did. But the flicker of lust still in Sherlock’s eyes, and the way his hand had earlier moved down to in between his legs, and the way Sherlock (Sherlock!) who he had never before suspected of capable of anything sexual seemed nearly undone by watching him eat... John nodded.

His heart was beating faster, now. He swallowed mouthful after mouthful of what was swiftly becoming a deeply unpleasant food to him, and chased every two bites with Lucozade. Watching Sherlock still stroking himself, long, slow strokes if his arm was a good indicator, had the effect of making John painfully hard, and he put his fork down to undo the button of his trousers and his flies. He adjusted his cock so it was resting up against his swollen stomach, the top of it out of his pants and tucked under his shirt.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John, very good,” he said, his voice rough and breathy.

The extra breathing room made him relax slightly, and Sherlock’s praise filled him with a vague, warm, pleased feeling. He smiled at him, taking another bite.

The cold potatoes sat on his tongue. He tried to swallow, but only got down about a third of what was in his mouth. He leaned over the plate and spit the rest out onto the portion of the plate he’d already emptied. 

“Keep eating, John,” Sherlock said, leaning forwards and watching him sharply. 

Being the focus of all of Sherlock’s intellect had always given John a frisson of excitement, but now, with his stomach tight and round and his cock pressing up against it and Sherlock wanking himself under the table, John shivered visibly. He stared down at the plate, three fifths of it full, two fifths empty save for the bite he’d spit out, and then looked back up at Sherlock.

Smiling, he slid the fork under the bite he’d spit out. Sherlock’s eyes widened. John put it back in his mouth and swallowed hard, making a small sound as he did so. He felt sweat break out near his hairline, and his mouth watered. 

He stuck his fork into the potatoes and readied another bite, but he could feel slickness rising in the back of his throat and his tongue felt too large. He pushed the fork in his mouth and held the potatoes there, trying to will himself into swallowing. 

He couldn’t. 

He looked up at Sherlock, desperate now, and tried again. 

The swallowing motion shifted, against his will, and he dry heaved, his tongue locking down and the back of his throat opening. He dribbled the unswallowed contents of his mouth onto the plate in front of him. 

He put two hands on the table, one on either side of the plate. 

His breathing shifted, more like panting, and he kept eye contact with Sherlock as he took in a deep breath and gagged. 

Nothing. Nothing except Sherlock’s arm quickening, his eyes dilated and desperate. John longed to touch him. 

Another deep breath, and he retched, and this time he felt heat traveling up his throat as he hovered his mouth over the plate. He noticed as he watched the slight bowl shape of the plate fill with the contents of his stomach that throwing up in this way was different than throwing up when he was sick. The taste was more neutral. The sensation more one of relief. He didn’t think he minded this sort. When the wave was finished he spit and stayed still. 

After a moment, he gasped and vomited again. This time, as the runny, yellowish potatoes fell from his lips he made himself look up to watch Sherlock. Oh, fuck. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed pink and he was biting his lower lip and his arm, his fucking arm was flying. 

John threw up again, more liquid than the previous two heaves, and with a force that splashed a small amount off the plate. That hardly mattered, though, because the quantity of the heave made the plate overflow onto the table. John wiped a hand across his face and was about to apologise when he was caught by another heave, this one bringing up potatoes and other chunks, most likely breakfast. He panted and kept his head carefully over the plate, his eyes watering.

When he was certain their wouldn’t be any more, he sat back in his chair, wiping at his watering eyes. Sherlock was watching him, had been watching him the entire time, and John could see he was close. With surprise, John noticed his own cock was still hard. He moved his hand towards it and Sherlock shook his head, once.

John froze. 

Sherlock came, a quiet huff of breath the only sound he made, his head falling back against the kitchen chair, both hands under the table.


	3. Peaches.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags. Do not proceed if you don't like reading about vomit.

John sank back in his chair. Sherlock tucked himself back into his trousers and did up his flies with one hand before stepping over to the sink to rinse his come off his other hand. He dried his hands and returned to the table. 

John’s eyes were rimmed in red, and his cheeks were a bit flushed, but overall he looked remarkably well composed. That was something Sherlock loved about John: his ability to assimilate to the unexpected and keep going. Sherlock watched as John slid his chair to the side until he was sitting directly in front of the next plate, and a small smile quirked the corner of Sherlock’s mouth up. That was John, through and through. Compliant. Not weak, no, never weak, but bendable. Willing. 

“Get up, John,” he said, motion for John to stand. John looked up at him, confusion evident on his face, and then tucked himself away and fastened his trousers and slowly pushed out his chair and stood. 

“Have I...” he said, and Sherlock knew what he was thinking. 

“No. You’ve done nothing wrong, John.” Sherlock moved in front of him and tugged at the hem of his jumper. “Off. Shirt too.”

John pulled the jumper off over his head and tossed it into the corner. His fingers were steady on the buttons of his shirt, and when he was finished, he tossed it in the corner as well. 

Sherlock put his hands flat against John’s ribcage, and he could feel the shiver that ran through him. “Your safeword, John?” he asked, leaning forwards and speaking with his lips brushing John’s neck.

“Ah...” John said, his posture faltering, “velvet. Velvet. That’s my safeword.” 

“Very good, John,” Sherlock murmured, smoothing his hands down John’s stomach.

Sherlock pulled back and stepped around John, sinking into the chair John had recently vacated, spreading his legs wide. Sherlock was thin, but even so, his presence in the chair left only about a four inch ledge for John to sit on. When Sherlock patted the space in front of him and told him to sit, John hesitated for a moment, but did lower himself cautiously onto the seat. 

Immediately, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s belly and pulled him flush against him. His fingers slipped down and unfastened the flies of John’s trousers, one hand reaching inside and gently shifting John’s cock. John gasped. Sherlock pulled it upright, feeling the warmth of the hard flesh against his fingers, and left it pinned to John’s belly by the elastic of his pants.

“Eat,” Sherlock whispered, his mouth in the bow of John’s body where neck met shoulder.

John nodded, and complied. He picked up the fork, spearing a peach slice, and chewed and swallowed it. He repeated the process before sipping his drink. Orange flavour, this time. 

As John settled in to a rhythm of eating, Sherlock ran his hands reverently up and down John’s torso. He raised one to cup John’s throat, releasing a shuddering breath when he felt the swell and pull of John swallowing beneath his palm.

Sherlock could feel the pulse of John’s heartbeat, climbing steadily higher as his hands roamed over that compact body. The scent of vomit was faint in the air, overwhelmed by the smell of peaches, and Sherlock bit lightly at the crest of John’s good shoulder and he watched John eat. 

John ate like a soldier. Steady, relentless. Sherlock was desperately aroused, so much so that even though he’d come not ten minutes prior he felt a stirring in his cock. He slipped a hand down over the growing curve of John’s belly and cupped him. The touch made John stop, gasp, and slowly, very slowly restart. A testament to John’s formidable willpower.

“John,” Sherlock said, and his tone was close to reverent.

John made a small noise in return. Not quite a moan, not quite a whimper.

Sherlock dropped his forehead to John’s shoulder and moved his hand. “Very good, John,” he said, canting his hips against John’s arse before raising his head to watch again. As John ate, Sherlock moved his hands between the soft, slightly fuzzy skin of his stomach to the sandpaper expanse of his throat, feeling the motions of John chewing, swallowing, breathing.

Sherlock lost himself in the sensation of it and hadn’t realized how much time had passed until he felt John stop chewing. 

And lean forwards. 

Sherlock leaned with him and looked down at the plate. It wasn’t as empty as the other one had been. Cupping John’s throat with one hand and spanning the base of his ribs with the other, Sherlock felt the first tightening, not quite a retch, but close. 

He kissed John’s shoulder. 

John did retch, then, and vomited. It was easier for him this time, Sherlock could tell, the earlier session weakening his gag reflex. The vomit was pulpy and thin, splattering the plate and table. 

Sherlock petted John’s stomach, his hand brushing repeatedly down the tight curve, occasionally cupping John’s erection.

John took in a deep breath and threw up again. Sherlock could feel it in his throat, the way the column widened slightly beneath his hand to allow the matter to pass, the way he swallowed reflexively a few times when he was done, the quick bursts of breath between heaves. He vomited again, the time between each heave shortening, and then again, and the liquid mess dripped from the table onto John’s legs, and Sherlock’s knees. 

A few more waves and John stilled, but Sherlock kept petting, the rhythmic movement over John’s stomach soothing him. John cleared his throat and spit. 

“Well done, John,” Sherlock said, slipping his hand down to cup John’s erection once more, and then insinuating his hand into John’s pants and wrapping long fingers around it. He felt John twitch.

John didn’t speak, just spit again, but Sherlock didn’t need him to. He slid his hand once up and down John’s cock. “Stand up,” he said, taking his hand away.

John, his stomach still unsettled, his knees weak, took hold of his trousers to keep them up and obeyed.


	4. Strawberries.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strawberries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, the tags. If those don't appeal to you, do not read.

John waited, holding his trousers up. He watched Sherlock go into his room and heard him shuffling through some drawers, but he couldn’t think. He felt vaguely nauseous still, not quite empty, and unsteady on his feet, but under all of that was a strange sense of calm. All he had to do was wait. All he had to do was follow Sherlock’s directions. And he did that well. 

The erection that had been more or less present for the last half hour twitched when he saw Sherlock exiting his room, a tube in his hand. Sherlock stopped in front of him and brought one hand to his chin, tilting his head up. John looked at him. Sherlock studied him carefully for a few moments, his forehead creased, before smiling and kissing the center of his forehead. 

“Well done, John,” he murmured, sliding the chair to the side and sitting back down. He pulled John’s trousers and pants down to his knees and patted the space in front of him again. 

John sat, leaning back against Sherlock and closing his eyes, while Sherlock did something with the tube. He was concentrating on the soft shifts of Sherlock’s breathing when without warning Sherlock’s hand was on his cock, spreading something cool and slick and oh, that was nice. John shifted and pushed up into the curl of Sherlock’s fingers, but a small sound from Sherlock made him stop. 

“John,” Sherlock said, then, circling John’s cock tightly and pulling up to the tip, “eat.”

John inhaled sharply at the sensation, and didn’t look down because he knew that Sherlock’s long, white fingers against the flush of his cock would be far, far too distracting. Instead, he picked up the fork and took his first bite, chewing slowly. The strawberries were ripe and sweet but eating was still difficult. He wanted to get enough down, so he’d need to be careful. 

Two bites and a sip of juice. Cherry, his favorite flavor. That would help. 

Sherlock tugged languidly on his cock, long slow strokes, clever fingers slipping over the head. His other hand cupped John’s balls gently for a moment before giving them a soft tug and drifting up to settle on John’s stomach. He didn’t press hard; he could tell, John was certain, that eating was a challenge.

Bite after bite John managed, slowly, steadily, pausing occasionally to close his eyes and lean his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder and feel the curious sensation of fullness and Sherlock’s hand on his cock. He spread his legs until they were flush against Sherlock’s. 

He didn’t know how these things worked. He’d only ever had what amounted to mutually fulfilling, pleasant, occasionally slightly adventurous sex. A few times girlfriends had brought up his military career and requested handcuffs or shouting or the like, but for John, that had felt as vulnerable as fucking on a raft in a pool of sharks, and because he always had nightmares after, he didn’t do it often. And much of what was happening with Sherlock didn’t seem like sex at all. 

He was going to ask if he could come, but he decided not to, both because Sherlock had asked him not to speak, and because, he was beginning to realize, Sherlock would take care of that decision for him. It was clear in the tug on his balls when he was too close, and the pace that varied enough that he could never quite get there. Sherlock would take care of it.

John sighed, and as he picked up his fork again Sherlock lifted a hand to his throat, stroking smoothly down his neck. The motion nauseated him a bit and he chewed for longer as a result. Swallow, bite, swallow, sip, bite, swallow, bite, swallow, sip. 

Sherlock ran his hand down and over the curve of John’s stomach, and it felt to John like he was assessing it somehow. Evidently he passed that test because afterwards, Sherlock’s hand on his cock shifted from slow and slick to fast, tight, hot, fuck.

John gasped, his head falling back against Sherlock’s shoulder, the fork falling from his hand and clattering on the floor. His hips pushed ever so slightly upwards, and he was rewarded with Sherlock’s other hand on his balls, and then his fingers slipping behind, brushing and then pressing on the warm place just behind the center of his sack. He moaned and Sherlock’s slick hand focused on the head of his cock and then the world went a bit soft around the edges and he was coming, coming with Sherlock’s hand on his cock. 

He lost himself for a moment, reduced to pulses of bliss and the strange sensation of being far too full, but when he came back, panting, Sherlock was wiping the lube and come on his hands onto his own trousers and then petting John’s belly. 

“Very good, John,” He whispered, his lips tickling the side of John’s neck. 

John meant to smile as the praise made him warm throughout, but the waves of orgasm had disturbed his fragile equilibrium and he retched instead, clamping a hand over his mouth as it filled with vomit and leaning forward. 

He spit the mouthful on the plate and waited. 

It didn’t take long. His stomach contracted and he vomited again, pink and watery and tasting very much of what he’d just eaten. He felt Sherlock shifting behind him and then the warm press of him against his back and he threw up. 

Sherlock held him, his arms around his torso in a firm cage, and John vaguely thought that that was good because he was losing control, and probably wouldn’t have been able to keep himself upright. He could hear Sherlock whispering to him, but the words were obliterated by the ringing in his ears and the force of his retching. 

Again and again he vomited, until, finally, it calmed to an occasional thin wave of stomach acid. And then dry heaves. When he was certain he wasn’t going to bring anything else up he lay back against Sherlock again.

His face was wet, tears and vomit and sweat, and he could feel Sherlock wiping it with something. His sleeve, John realized. 

Sherlock kissed his temple, whispered into his ear, his lips brushing the helix.

“Well done, John.” 

John didn’t react, just lay there, empty and sated and being held by Sherlock.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags. Read them.

They were still for a what seemed to Sherlock like a long time. He held John, one hand circling his wrist, the other wrapped around his chest, pinning him against Sherlock. John’s heart rate decreased, slowing steadily into something like relaxation, and Sherlock pressed another kiss to John’s temple. 

When it was time to move, John responded mindlessly, allowing Sherlock to stand him up and guide him to the loo. He sat him down on the toilet and started the shower, stripping off his own soiled clothes before attending to John. 

Sherlock knelt, bare knees against cold tile. Cupped the side of John’s face with one hand, frowning. “A shower, and then you’ll drink some tea,” he said, and John nodded, his eyes unfocused, cheeks flushed, body limp and pliant.

Sherlock tugged the jumper over John’s head, tossing it on the floor. Lithe fingers unbuttoned John’s shirt, the collar of which was spattered with sick. He pulled it free and followed it with John’s vest. Standing, Sherlock helped John upright and pushed the unfastened trousers down, and then the pants, and encouraged John to step free of them. John does.

In the shower, he soaped John’s body in much the same way a nurse would, gently and thoroughly. His eyes remained on John’s face, taking in the way John’s thick lashes clumped together when wet, the total lack of expression on his face. Sherlock was certain that if he let go of John, John would not remain upright. 

John’s unresponsiveness ended when Sherlock started to dry him. He helped, leaning one way or another, and then putting on the pants and tee Sherlock brought him. When Sherlock motioned him into his room he went without question, settling on Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock pushed John gently on to his side and covered him with the blankets. “I’ll be back in five minutes with tea,” he said, leaning over John so that when he spoke his lips brushed John’s hair. 

When Sherlock returned with the tea, John had closed his eyes. His deep, even breathing would have indicated to sleep to anyone else, but Sherlock saw the slight tightness around John’s eyes that indicated he was awake, although very relaxed. He nudged John up into a sitting position and wrapped his hands around the mug of tea. “You need to drink this, John,” he said, and John did. 

Later, when they were curled in the bed, facing each other, Sherlock carding one hand through John’s hair, John smiled at him. “I feel... I don’t know how to describe it. I’ve never felt this way before. It wasn’t... well, it’s not exactly pleasant to be sick, but that was...” he trailed off. “I feel safe,” he said. 

Sherlock moved his hand and swept a thumb over John’s cheekbones, holding the side of his face. “You are.”


End file.
